The Girl in the Kerchief
by ornamental-reciprocity
Summary: It started with small things that went wrong: a dress that went missing, an accidental fire. Nothing alarming. And yet, Sophie can't shake the feeling that there's something off about the new girl. Something she probably doesn't want to know. In a world living under a tyrant's thumb, there are secrets that should never be known. And there are some that are too dangerous to keep.


"Who do you think she is?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know."

"No, I don't."

"I mean look at her."

"What for?"

"Oh, you have to see it."

"Well, I don't. What is it?"

"Well, it's just... she's just so... you know."

"No, we don't know, Lydie. Do do us the favor of clarifying your insight."

Sophie kept her eyes down on the fabric in her hands, only idly listening the gossip. Her needle swum through the cloth. Up down, up down. In out. One of the million needle strokes she'd made in her life. But she still watched the stitches carefully, like she expected them to wriggle off the cloth and run screaming through the workshop. She could picture it. All the stitches just bouncing in a row like a zigzagging snake and just running out the door to freeodm. She chuckled to herself. That was a strange image.

"What's so funny?" a voice asked, to Sophie's right. It was Mary, Sophie could tell without looking up, a consequence of holding most of her conversations with her nose buried in stitching. Mary's voice was squeaky and recognizable, but although she had that kind of unfortunate face which made her seem stern all the time, she was nice enough, if a bit pushy.

"Nothing, Mary," Sophie answered without thinking. She had learned long ago, not to mention the weirder thoughts she had. It only earned her odd looks and the occasional pity laugh.

"So then, what do you think?"

"About?"

"About the new girl. Weren't you listening?"

"Right, that. I don't know."

Next to Mary, Lydie snorted in disbelief. "Well you're the one who talked to her. You must know something." Lydie bounced a little in her seat, waiting for the news. At thirteen, Lydie was younger than Sophie by almost seven years, and she showed her youth and naïveté proudly. There wasn't a single topic that Lydie couldn't turn into gossip, a single euphemism that didn't make her giggle loudly, or a single, young man who couldn't make her blush with even an eyebrow raise.

Sophie shrugged, keeping her eyes trained carefully on the needlework. There was lace on this skirt. Lace was always unpleasant to work with because it was expensive. If it got snagged or ripped, there would be hell to pay. It required concentration, or so Sophie claimed. Anyway, she wasn't really up for gossip today, although it seemed that it was becoming unavoidable. The girls were ganging up on her and when they got it into their heads, they could be like an angry flock of geese: utterly terrifying.

"Well, you might as well tell them your thoughts, or we'll never have peace." This deeper voice belonged to Elizabeth. She was the oldest of the four, at twenty four years old, although still unmarried. Although she sat beside Lydie, she couldn't have been farther from her. She wore her age like it was a badge of maturity and poise and therefore she was much above the common gossip. She believed herself to be the smartest of them all (although that title, Sophie believed, plainly belonged to Mary), and was therefore the mother hen and moral guidance for all in the shop, by her own estimation. This was an estimation no one else in the shop quite agreed with, and therefore, most found Elizabeth to be most disagreeable most of the time.

Although, for a spinster, Elizabeth was quite pretty. She had soft blue eyes and shining brown hair that fell beside her face in gentle waves. She wore the years of hard work well, even gracefully, a feat which very few actual laborers achieved. If Sophie hadn't known better, she would have guessed Elizabeth was a rich, young widow perhaps, if not for the calluses on her fingers from years of needle pricks. In fact, despite her age, Elizabeth had been the prettiest woman in the shop for years, until this morning of course.

Which brought Sophie around to the latest object of scrutiny: the new girl. Now, a new girl in and of herself was not entirely unusual. Since their shop handled most of the business of the palace, they had around fifty girls (although Sophie had never entirely figured out how one palace could require so many dresses when the ruling monarch had no family and was also a man). Girls came and went as they got married and had children who would then come and work in the shop in their place. But, not much of interest happened in a sewing shop, except for when too many orders came in at once and there was general panic. On the whole, it was a dreary place to work, although vastly improved over the alternatives, and so any diversion, no matter how small, was seized upon and discussed and dissected until there was no possible angle that hadn't been explored.

And the new girl was quite lovely, which probably didn't help matters. No, Sophie decided. She was beyond lovely, although her beauty was not quite conventional and was almost off-putting. She was not delicate, as Sophie had come to believe girls should be. She was heavy and hard and her face was etched with frown lines even though she couldn't have been older than Sophie herself. Yet, there was no denying that she was breath taking. She kept her hair bound tight in a scarf, a common practice in the summer heart, but she folded the edges of the kerchief low down, over her eyebrows. Her brown eyes barely peeked out beneath the dull, brown cloth, which must have been uncomfortable, but somehow, she made it seem both natural and flattering.

Sophie had memorized her appearance, sneaking quick little glances at her while she sewed. The girl was being run ragged that morning. Caroline, the actual manager of the shop (although Elizabeth might contest the title) was guiding her through at least two dozen rules to remember. That was Caroline's favorite phrase. Rules to Remember. Although, when she said it she rolled her R's so long it would probably more accurately be represented as "Rrrrrrrules to Rrrrrrrememberrrrrr." These rules were insipid, Sophie knew. She had heard them a hundred times at least. A few were important, such as wearing your uniform or knowing where the thread was kept, but most were wholly unnecessary. If anyone had ever used the specially dedicated cloth for wiping off their shoes before entering the building, Sophie was unaware of it.

But the new girl kept nodding attentively, as though she were trying her honest best to memorize them all. It was impressive after nearly two hours of the onslaught. Sophie herself was nearly scoffing, and she was only half paying attention. The girl plainly had an iron resolve. Sophie's amazement only grew as the morning progressed, and the girl kept at it with the same intensity. It was remarkable, especially given, as all of the seamstresses had realized long ago, Caroline would recite her Rrrrrrrrules for days if it kept her from any actual work. Nonetheless, although Sophie was duly impressed by the girl's fortitude, there was something deeply unsettling about a girl who could listen to Caroline endlessly with such a perfectly intent face, ignoring the gossip all around the shop which was plainly audible.

In fact, there was something deeply unsettling about the girl in general, although Sophie couldn't identify what in heaven it was. She thought about sharing her thoughts with her little group, but it seemed no sooner had she had the thought than Lydie presented her own theory.

"I heard she used to be a... you know."

Mary groaned. "Lydie. We don't know. We never know. Say what you mean. Just say it."

"Girls," Elizabeth snapped, plainly preparing a lecture. Lydie interrupted before she could begin another tirade.

"You know, one of those ladies. The ones that are paid for their services."

Sophie could picture Mary biting back her retort that their group, in fact, consisted entirely of ladies who were paid for their services. She could say it, but it would fly over Lydie's head entirely. And no amount of coercion could get Lydie to use the actual word for something she considered risqué. It was much more fun to giggle and dance around the issue. Mary groaned again. "Lydie, do you mean a prostitute?"

Lydie, predictably, giggled. Elizabeth sent both of them a sharp look of reproach, but they neither noticed nor cared.

"Well, she could be," Lydie answered.

"Where would she have learned sewing?" Mary asked.

Elizabeth interrupted, "Girls!"

"She could have learnt it on the side. I'm sure those ladies wear dresses, too."

"Not fine dresses," Mary countered.

But Lydie was gone into fantasy. "And dresses need to be repaired no matter what, right?"

Elizabeth, again. "This is hardly appropriate for young ladies."

"You're two years older than me, Lizzie."

Lydie wasn't listening at all anymore. "It's kind of wonderful, to think of working your way up from one of those ladies, picking up a bit of thread and just sewing your way to salvation. Do you think she sewed while customers were there, too?" More giggling.

"And during work hours, no less." Elizabeth raised her hand to her forehead as though she just might faint with the shock.

"Yes," Mary replied, dropping her needle in exasperation. "She worked her way all the way to salvation in a dark sewing shop, where she can sit and flick her wrist back and forth and stab herself with small pointed objects and pick knots out of thread for pennies a day to fix fancy dresses she'll never own. It's positively romantic."

"Well, I think it's lovely," Lydie pouted, sticking her tongue out for added effect. "She's come so far, after, I presume, being abandoned by a dying mother somewhere on the streets. And rescued by a young priestess, who couldn't keep her, of course-"

At last, Sophie looked up and declared definitively. "She wasn't a prostitute."

Lydie looked rather put out by the announcement. "And how do you know that? Did she tell you?"

"No, she didn't tell me. She's too pretty to be a prostitute."

"Well, I always thought that was rather the point."

"You've clearly never met a prostitute, then. Besides, she's too fat. Where would she get the money to eat that much?"

"What if she was one of those fancy ladies, the kind the a rich man takes a liking to, except he's married, so he buys her her own house, and fancy jewels, and-"

"You mean a mistress, Lydie," Mary pointed out.

"And she wasn't one of those either," Sophie confirmed. Elizabeth, meanwhile, had gone quite white and was leaning back on the bench as though she had recently fainted and would someone be a dear and please fetch her some water and it's her poor nerves nowadays and oh woe is me. Even so, she couldn't disguise the huge smile on her supposedly unconscious face. She lived for nothing if not to be a martyr to the Lost Cause of the Declining Sensibilities of the Ladies of the Younger Generation.

"And how do you know that?" Lydie asked, still rather upset that her glorious, unfounded speculations were not being treated as definitive fact.

"She's too smart."

"So?"

"She wouldn't leave the jewels behind when the rich man finally abandoned her. And you can bet, if she had that kind of money, she wouldn't be working here."

It seemed the only bit of that sentence Lydie absorbed was the mention of a rich man, because she sighed wistfully and gazed into the distance, whispering. "I wish I could meet a rich man like that. Not one who abandons me, of course, but then he wouldn't do that. You see, his wife's a shrew, and he wishes he married me, if only he had met me sooner, but since he can't, he'll give me-"

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted Lydie's monologue. Simultaneously, everyone in the group looked up to see Caroline hovering over them, the new girl close in tow.

"And this, Emmaline, is a prime example of perhaps the most important Rrrrrrrule to Rrrrrrememberrrr, which is that we pay you to work. And not for your lovely fantasies, pretty as they may be."

Lydie blushed scarlet, while Mary and Sophie had the good sense to look away from Caroline's eyes. She operated like an alpha dog, and any eye contact was considered a direct assault to her authority. Elizabeth simply sat their smirking, as though she had been absolutely right in trying to prevent these young harlots and their gutter talk in such a fine institution and in no way, whatsoever, had she been enjoying her martyrdom. She stared back at Caroline, eyes shining with confidence at her own cleverness. There was a reason Elizabeth usually caught the brunt of Caroline's rage.

Caroline opened her mouth, no doubt to begin another long lecture, when a loud, brass bell interrupted her mid-inhale. Everyone in the shop dropped their needles into their laps and stretched their arms out. Normally, they didn't leave without a formal dismissal from Caroline, but not where devotions were concerned. No one wanted to be late- the guards at the square were pretty rude when you were- and besides, the ceremonies themselves were generally pleasant. Even if they were only kneeling and chanting, at least it was a change of pace from sitting all day. And the walk there was always a good chance to stretch their legs and feel the outside air.

Caroline deflated when the bell stole her thunder, but nonetheless had the poise to glare menacingly at the group once more for good measure. "Later," she informed them, before storming off to fetch her outdoor hat. As soon as she turned her back, everyone in the group relaxed. That would be the end of it. Caroline, for all her Rrrrrrrrules to Rrrrrrememberrrr, couldn't remember anything worth a damn.

* * *

Two weeks before, there had been a fire in western portion of the city. Three blocks of slums ignited unexpectedly, and although the flames were contained nothing within them could be salvaged. Those who weren't fast enough to flee were consumed and obliterated. Even in this great city, it seemed, there were poor, searching for shelter in any ramshackle structure they could make. These lean-tos went up easily and quickly. They burned white hot for about an hour and then they puttered into extinction.

After the fire had burnt out, nothing was left. Not even the charred remains of corpses could be found in the ashes. People figured that they just must have burnt away, ashes on the wind. And that was that.

If anyone took the time to wonder how a fire that hot had ever been lit by accident, they didn't mention it. The flames were out and it was over. And besides, there were some things it was best not to speculate on.

* * *

Hey, so this is a really random thing, that I wrote as part of an attempt to overcome writer's block. I thought maybe getting out of my usual fandom would be a nice change of pace. And this happened. Except now I'm kind of interested in this, and not the story I really need to finish, so that plan backfired. Oh well, I am locking myself in my room today until I write something (except for that I apparently need to go shoe shopping tonight - that's parents for you. Always believing that you need new shoes just because they can see your toes coming out of the ones you have currently).

If you care to, please read, review, enjoy, etc.

Till Next Time,

Ornamental Reciprocity


End file.
